He glared at me, gnashed his plates, then gestured toward a
black-varnished door. "Go right in there."
He gaped at my arm when the bandages were off. I took a quick glance
and wished I hadn't.
"How did you do this?"
"Smoking in bed," I said. "Have you got ... something that...."
He caught me before I hit the floor, got me into a chair. Then he had
that Scotch he'd been wanting, gave me a shot as an after-thought, and
looked at me narrowly.
"I suppose you fell out of that same bed and broke your leg," he said.
"Right. Hell of a dangerous bed."
"I'll be right back." He turned to the door. "Don't go away. I'll
just ... get some gauze."
"Better stay here, Doc. There's plenty of gauze right on that table."
"See here--"
"Skip it, doc. I know all about you."
"What?"
"I said _all_ about you."
He set to work then; a guilty conscience is a tough argument to answer.
He plastered my arm with something and rewrapped it, then looked the
leg over and made a couple of adjustments to the brace. He clucked over
the stitches in my scalp, dabbed something on them that hurt like hell,
then shoved an old-fashioned stickpin needle into my good arm.
"That's all I can do for you," he said. He handed me a bottle of pills.
"Here are some tablets to take in an emergency. Now get out."
"Call me a cab, Doc."
* * * * *
I listened while he called, then lit a cigarette and watched through
the curtains. The doc stood by, worrying his upper plate and eyeing me.
So far I hadn't had to tinker with his mind, but it would be a good
idea to check. I felt my way delicately.
--_oh God, why did I ... long time ago ... Mary ever knew ... go to
Arizona, start again, too old...._ I saw the nest of fears that gnawed
at him, the frustration and the faint flicker of hope but not quite
dead. I touched his mind, wiped away scars....
"Here's your car," he said. He opened the door, looking at me. I
started past him.
"Are you sure you're all right?" he said.
"Sure, Pop. And don't worry. Everything's going to be okay."
The driver put my boxes on the back seat. I got in beside him and told
him to take me to a men's clothing store. He waited while I changed my
hand-me-downs for an off-the-hook suit, new shirt and underwear and a
replacement beret. It was the only kind of hat that didn't hurt. My
issue shoes were still good, but I traded them in on a new pair, added
a light raincoat, and threw in a sturdy suitcase for good measure. The
clerk said something about money and I dropped an idea into his mind,
paused long enough to add a memory of a fabulous night with a redhead.
He hardly noticed me leaving.
I tried not to feel like a shop-lifter. After all, it's not every day a
man gets a chance to swap drygoods for dreams.
In the cab, I transferred my belongings to the new suitcase, then
told the driver to pull up at an anonymous-looking hotel. A four-star
admiral with frayed cuffs helped me inside with my luggage. The hackie
headed for the bay to get rid of the box under the impression I was a
heavy tipper.
I had a meal in my room, a hot bath, and treated myself to a three hour
nap. I woke up feeling as though those student embalmers might graduate
after all.